


Vacillation

by Kalliodk



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Episode Related, Fragile Things, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, comfort sex maybe, maybe not that much comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5552102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalliodk/pseuds/Kalliodk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the hours between Theo Galavan's death and Jim Gordon asking for Lee's hand there was another reality, a moment that was just for him and Oswald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vacillation

When Jim asks Lee to marry him, it's not because he's thinking of his responsibility as a father to their child. It's not because of his love for Lee. It's not  because he feels obligated to do so. He asks because he's back in his own reality, and this is the narrative he has to follow.

***  
Two days earlier he's standing by the car, his back turned to the water, to the body of Theo Galavan, to the noises of whatever god-awful thing Cobblepot is doing to him. He should be appalled but mostly he just feels dejected. If he tries, really tries, he can feel the tingling edges of frustration, which has nothing to do with what just happened and what he just did but a lot to do with the fact that he isn't more bothered.

He just killed a man. The term innocent does not apply to Galavan, he knows that, but still. There is law, and justice, there's his job, there's his duty, and everything that comes with it. Or so he thought. Because on the other side of the equation there is Gotham, and she's tipping the scale so heavily he's not sure there even is another side anymore.

He feels pressure on his arm, and Oswald is there, his hand resting on his sleeve. Done. It's done. He helped him kill a man, and Jim wants to be disgusted but mostly he feels resignation over the fact that he doesn't. He doesn't know what that means, and doesn't want to dwell on it. He wants to get away, away from this place and from the decay in his heart.

Oswald's looking at him with too bright eyes, high on adrenaline and emotion and Jim tells him to get in the car, then walks to the driver's side.

They take the highway out of Gotham, going north west. The rain is coming down hard now, blurring their vision, the sound of the wipers on the windscreen the only disturbance in the silence of the car. Jim has no idea where he's going and Oswald hasn't asked. Away seems like the thing they both need. They killed a man and they could both go to jail or they could blame each other or they could go completely free. Jim doesn't want to deal with that right now so away seems like a good enough alternative at the moment.

He glances sideways at Oswald who's looking out the window. He's rubbing his bad leg absentmindedly, probably wouldn't admit to anything, ever, but Jim knows about battle wounds and knows about pain. And not just the physical kind.

He stops at a gas station and gets out. The rain pelts down on him, hard and cold. It's nothing his suit can protect him from even walking the short distance across the parking lot. Inside, he buys a bottle of cheap bourbon and a pack of ibuprofen at the counter under the harsh halogen light that makes him squint and makes the face of the young guy behind the desk appear blotched and sickly.

He dumps the painkillers in Oswald's lap as soon as he gets into the driver's seat again, then unscrewing the lid he hands the bottle of booze to Oswald. He should probably have bought water but he didn't think that far. Oswald looks at him like he's about to argue, then silently takes the bottle from him. By the time Jim has put the car in gear and veered off and onto the highway again Oswald has popped two pills and taken a generous swig.

It's been no more than 40 minutes but Oswald is asleep in the seat next to him, against the window, jet black hair plastered against the glass in a messy way that's so out of tune with his usual micro managed look Jim can't help but glance over more than once. He's able to observe him quietly in a way he's not been able to before. Oswald looks exhausted in a way no one should look at, well, whatever indeterminable age Oswald is. He's always wired and alert and it's barely different now.

It strikes Jim that sleep on Oswald does not looks peaceful and unguarded.

They pull in at a motel a ways out of town. Oswald gets out, stumbles a bit, but regains his footing on the wet gravel. Jim grabs the bottle of bourbon and locks the car. They walk in silence together towards the pale, illuminated sign saying "Open" on the wall next to a wooden door in a small building adjacent to the row of motel rooms.

The woman at the counter looks at them tiredly. A cop (can he call himself that anymore?), his clothes soaked through, hair wet, and a peculiar looking, slight man hovering just behind him. What mustn't they look like. But there is no judgment, the word 'cop' is not edged on Jim's forehead, neither is the word 'murderers' spelled in neon above their heads, and when he asks for a room she merely takes his cash and hands him a key to a room with twin beds.

If Oswald is startled that Jim books them into one room he doesn't say, and Jim is grateful for that because he would not be able to explain it. He has no plan, he just knows he doesn't know what tomorrow will bring, and he knows he can't be in town right now, not tonight. Him and Oswald, they exist outside any kind of reality he knows and he needs to keep it that way, just for a little while longer.

The room is dark when they unlock the door to their assigned room in the flat, sandy colored building. Jim tosses the key on the nearby table, places the bottle there and goes straight to the bathroom to retrieve two plastic cups.

"Sit down", he says, and Oswald does, on a chair by the small table. Jim turns on a dingy lamp that casts a yellow glow on both of them. Jim drags the second chair closer and sits down across from Oswald and pours bourbon into the two cups before knocking down his drink in one swig.

Oswald stares at Jim, trying to figure out what he is supposed to do here, and why. He's not a big drinker, and mostly nothing stronger than wine. He dislikes not being in control, and whatever Jim is planning Oswald isn't sure he wants to be drunk for this. But it doesn't seem to matter to Jim if Oswald is there for this or not, he's drinking for his own reasons, and Oswald can stay behind or he can join.

He joins.

After a while Jim takes off his wet jacket and hangs it on the chair, quickly followed by his damp shirt. He proceeds to take off his clothes, scattering them over various surfaces to dry. Oswald looks away, anywhere but at him, but the room is so small he's virtually impossible to avoid. Oswald tries to make it casual and knows he fails.

Down to his boxers, Jim turns to him, stands there for a while, undecided perhaps, or expectantly.

"I'm taking a shower," he states.

He doesn't move immediately, though, and Oswald desperately tries to imagine what kind of response this warrants but comes up empty, and after a beat Jim simply goes to the bathroom. He leaves the door ajar, not quite shutting it. Oswald can hear the water being turned on and finally remembers to breathe again.

He closes is eyes and swallows, nervous fists clenching and unclenching. His inexperience in this area is suddenly painfully clear to him. His only memories of being in a state of undress with other people are associated with _locker rooms and taunts, humiliation and pain and-_

No, don't go there, not now.

Is the door Jim didn't close an invitation? Would anyone else be able to read the signs clearly, without doubt and fear and shallow breathing and a knot in their stomach? Will this be a terrible mistake, one of many between them?

He screws his eyes shut for a moment, then downs the last of his drink, cringing at the sting in his throat, then unsteadily loosens his tie, unbuttons his waistcoat and his shirt. He places his shoes under one bed, folds his clothes neatly on top. When he's down to his own underwear he hesitates at the bathroom door, then gently pushes it open. The damp air hits him in the face like a gentle caress while he waits, waits.

"Get in or shut the door. You're letting the heat out," Jim says from the shower, finally.

Not a mistake, then.

Oswald quickly enters and closes the door behind him. He can just make out the body of Jim, blurred behind the wet and steamy glass of the shower cubicle. With hands that are shaking Oswald braces himself against the wall and strips down completely, then opens the glass door and joins Jim under the shower.

He can't look at him for fear of what he will see in Jim's face, for fear of what Jim will see in his, and is grateful when he feels Jim angle the shower head towards him, the steady beat of water forcing him to keep his eyes shut. He hears the squeak of soap taken from a dispenser and then there are hands on him, gently kneading soap onto his shoulders, his neck and up, into his scalp and his hair. He leans into it, feels Jim lather it against the wet skin of his body, down his arms.

He feels Jim turn him around and place his hands against the wall inside the cubicle. Jim is behind him while he continues his ministrations, gently sliding slick hands over his body in slow but deliberate motions. Soapy water runs down Oswald's chest, followed by Jim's hand, rubbing across his belly while the other rests on his hip. When Jim's hand skims over his cock and his balls Oswald jolts as if electrocuted. He curses inwardly, embarrassed at his own response.

Jim stills his hands, hovering on his stomach and magically, hilariously, ask, "Is this okay?" and Oswald wants to scream. He feels heat rise on his neck and face and squeezes his eyes shut before blinking water from his eyes. He doesn't trust his voice so he simply nods in reply, _yes yes God yes don't fucking stop now_

-and then Jim presses up against him, warm and wet and all hard angles and muscle. Oswald can feel his half hard cock where it's nudged against his ass and he lets his head fall forward, rests his forehead against his arm where it's stretched towards the wall, releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Jim doesn't hesitate now but slides his hand down across the wet and soapy tuft of hair above Oswald's member, fingers straying briefly between his legs, then back up before he wraps his hand around him. Oswald feels lips on his neck and warm breath coming in gusts, his ears full of the sound of running water and the wet slide of Jim's hand as he jerks his erect cock steadily.

Jim splays his left hand across Oswald stomach and licks and nips at the pale neck exposed in front of him. He rubs himself gently against the body held closely against him but concentrates on bringing Oswald to orgasm with his hand. Oswald is moving slightly, going with the motion, unable to keep still. Jim slides his hand into Oswald's wet hair and pulls his head back so he can place open mouthed kisses on his neck, bite the shell of an hear, coax involuntary little noises from him as he works him faster towards completion.

Oswald comes with a gasp, mouth open, splattering the wall in front of him. Jim holds on to him through it, and when the gasp turns to silent sobs he doesn't let go. Oswald's tears mix with the spray of water from the shower head, dripping onto both of their bodies, on Jim's left arm where it's pressing against Oswald's chest and his right, curled around his stomach. He doesn't let go until the sobs subside and Oswald is limp in his arms.

Afterwards, Oswald finds himself sitting on the edge of a bed, wrapped in a large, worn towel while Jim runs another towel over his own face and hair, then wraps it around his mid section. Oswald follows the movements, takes a moment to appreciate the toned body of Jim, so unlike his own. When Jim sits down next to him, brown eyes searching his, he fight the urge to cover himself further.

Oswald gazes at him through long eye lashes. He looks impossibly young, but calmer than he has in weeks, months, probably in all the time Jim has known him.

”I've been trying to find your mother,” Jim starts.

Oswald takes a breath, waits for what follows.

”We haven't found her yet, but I've employed a search team. We will find her body, and then she will get a proper burial.”

Oswald lowers his head and breathes out a sigh and for a moment Jim thinks he will cry again. When he looks up his eyes are bright with affection.

”Thank you.”

Jim nods and then Oswald surges forward and kisses him.

He presses his lips to Jim's, not knowing if this is part of the arrangement, but he's not pushed away, in fact Jim grabs his face between his hands and angles his face and deepens the kiss. Licks inside his mouth, claims him, owns him. Oswald melts against him and opens up, pliant, accepting. He runs his fingers though the short hair at the back of Jim's head, returns the kiss as well as he can.

Jim pushes him back down on the bed, peels the towel from him and pushes his own off to the side, dumped on the floor, forgotten. He covers all of Oswald's body with his own, leaning his weight on his elbows, cradling Oswald's face, kissing him hard and demanding.

Under him Oswald moans into his mouth, runs his hands across Jim's back, urging him on. He spreads his legs as Jim settles between them, almost naturally, like they were molded to fit in this exact position a long time ago and only just now figured it out.

He's never felt such heat, such warmth, as he does now, with Jim grinding his cock into his groin like it's the only thing that matters. He never imagined anything could feel this encompassing and overwhelming. It's frightening and addictive - and yet it's not enough.

”Do it,” he breathes.

The request is spoken so softly Jim isn't sure he heard him right. He stills, leans up and gazes down at Oswald's flushed face. Their intimate position lends him a pretty good idea of what Oswald wants without the need for elaboration.

”I don't.. we don't have anything.”

”There's a bottle of body lotion on the sink in the bathroom.”

Jim only hesitates a second before moving off him and into the bathroom, returning swiftly enough with the tiny hotel bottle in hand. Sitting on his haunches between Oswald's legs he slicks up his member, then leans down over Oswald, positioning himself.

Oswald holds on to his sides as he presses in. It's tight and uncomfortable, the lotion a poor substitution for lubrication, but it will have to do. Under him Oswald turns his face away, eyes screwed shut, as Jim starts to move, small juts at first, until he gets used to the sensation.

Jim has never done this before, and he's fairly certain neither has Oswald. He mouths along his neck, his jawline, turns his face towards him and nips at his bottom lip.

”You gotta breathe,” he murmurs, willing his body to still and give Oswald time to accommodate.

Oswald nods meekly and draws a shaky breath. ”Don't stop. Please.”

There's the sound of rustling fabric as Jim repositions himself pressing tighter against Oswald, forcing his legs higher. He leans on his elbows so he can watch Oswald's face and then he starts to move again. There's no way he could hold back now, enveloped in tightness as he is, Oswald's fingers fluttering across his back, digging into his shoulders. His mouths is slack and his eyes fall shut as Jim starts to fuck him into the mattress in earnest.

He won't last long this way, not with the way Oswald is coming apart under him, his heels digging into his thighs, urging him on, head thrown back, sweat glistening on his chest and neck and face. Jim leans down to lick at it, rests his head in the crook of Oswald's shoulder, finds he can't resist the urge to bite down on the pale, warm skin available there.

”J-Jim...” Oswald stutters, and it's all the warning he gets before he's rushing towards his second orgasm, shooting messily across his own stomach. Jim fucks him through it until he doesn't think he has anymore sounds in him or any more working bodily functions, then Jim pulls out and fists his own cock above him until he spills over his own hand, his semen mingling with the cooling mess on Oswald's stomach.

They're both lying on the narrow bed, shoulders touching, breathing hard, too hot and too exhausted to do anything else. Oswald doesn't think he could even move a limb if he tried. After a while Jim gets up to clean himself in the bathroom and Oswald thanks him when he brings back a warm, wet cloth to clean up the mess they made.

Afterwards Oswald is curled on his side under the faded colors of the duvet. Jim is facing him, his arm under his head, the duvet he snatched from the other bed twisted around him.

”When I was 12 I lost both my parents in a car accident,” Jim says.

Oswald blinks and looks at him with eyes that hold both pain and hope.

”Does it ever get better?”

Jim can't find it in himself to answer anything else but ”Yes” and he curls his lips into a small smile that's meant to comfort.

Oswald nods once and then he's dozing off, and Jim falls asleep to the light from the small lamp on the table and the sound of the rain beating on the window of their room.

  
The phone rings, startling both of them. Jim scrambles off the bed and rummages through is pockets, finds his cell phone in his pants and digs it out.

Harvey.

He looks back at Oswald who is sitting up, a questioning look on his face. Jim disconnects the call, then dons his underwear and pants and goes outside to call back. It's daylight, 8am, and as gray and foggy as ever.

It's a short call. Not the one he expected, but one that he appreciates nonetheless. He hangs up again and takes a moment to breathe in the chill air, clear his head and prepare for the ride back.

When he goes back in Oswald is buttoning his waistcoat and straightening his clothes. He looks as prim and proper as ever, back in his layers of mental and physical protection as if he never took it off.

”That was Harvey,” Jim starts. ”Galavan's missing. There's no body.”

Oswald reads between the lines and adds, ”No evidence.”

Jim shakes his head. No evidence of what they did. It doesn't mean it didn't happen, but it lends them time to process what happened. Or him. He's pretty sure Oswald isn't giving it a second thought.

Jim finishes dressing and then they're out of the door and Oswald goes to wait by the car while Jim checks them out.

The drive back to Gotham is silent. Jim feels he should say something. They just had sex and shouldn't that be profound in some way? Shouldn't it mean something more?

But Oswald seems content to silently look out the window, hands folded neatly in his lap, the feathers on his ridiculously dramatic coat framing his face and making him appear even more birdlike and frail than usual (but Jim knows better). He sighs inaudibly and turns his gaze back to the road ahead.

On his way to meet with Harvey Jim pulls up at the curb outside Oswald's club. They sit there for a few seconds until Oswald turns to him, face open and readable, unguarded for once.

”I can't be second choice, Jim,” he says, quietly. It's not an accusation, nor is he trying to guilt him. It just is.

Jim feels slightly embarrassed that he expected anything else. He nods quietly in return.

 ”I know.”

Because he does know, and he understands, and why that makes him sad is a question for a completely different time, when things aren't so messed up.

Correction, when _he and Oswald_ aren't so messed up. If such a time will ever come, that is.

Oswald gives him a small smile and nods before opening the door and getting out. Jim watches him the whole way in the rear mirror as he drives off but Oswald doesn't look back. Gabriel opens the door and lets him in and then he's out of sight and Jim swallows down all the questions he has and instead turns his focus on the ones he'll be facing the moment he arrives at the station.

***

Two days later Jim Gordon asks Lee to marry him and waits with bated breath for the answer, unsure of what she'll say, unsure of what he wants to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all your kind words. I may continue this if I can make it canon compliant like this one.
> 
> Fixed the formatting, too, finally.


End file.
